You're not going to Fahrenheit 9/11 for the Truth, right? If you're one of the people helping break box office records for the film this weekend, you can't possibly be attending because you are hoping to have your mind made up about the Bush administration, do you? I mean, you know already how you feel, don't you?
One of the central questions hovering around Michael Moore has always been: Whom is he making his movies for? Since Roger & Me catapulted the unknown into the mainstream, Moore has been preaching to the converted. Nit-pick over his inaccuracies all you want; Moore is after a fundamental truth as opposed to worrying over the facts. And like a lot of propagandists before him, Moore's also something off a conceited egoist.
None of that would bother me if the movies were flat-out terrific. (I love Lars von Trier, so clearly I can separate egomaniacal hothead from the artist within.) But ultimately, Moore's greatest liability is his movies. Specifically, his three biggest: Roger & Me, Oscar-winning Bowling for Columbine, and now Fahrenheit 9/11. Each is made with a certain amount of care, passion, and levity. But stripped of their controversy, they seem relatively minor works. No there there, as they say.
In retrospect, Roger ignited on contact because it seemed shockingly new -- its common-man muckraking, its personal-film style, its audacity. But it also predicted Moore's M.O. ever after, with diminishing results. Indeed, one of Fahrenheit 9/11's greatest faults is that its vocal opponents can so easily tear it apart. Moore does play fast and loose with the facts. He does include himself too much in the narrative. Especially in relation to a modest, fizzy entertainment like Super Size Me, Moore's movies yawn with self-righteousness. And here's something people never mention: They aren't as funny as advertised either. 9/11's biggest laughs come from classic footage of Bush acting ridiculously or from the juxtaposition of dissimilar footage in order to prove a point. By comparison, Moore's own sarcastic delivery never surprises you or jolts a laugh out of you. David Letterman has been on television for more than 20 years and he's still funnier on a daily basis than Moore is.
But while Moore's new film lacks the freshness of Roger & Me, it seems to be the one that's focused his abilities the most since that touchstone. It's a moving, angry ride. Still, even we Kerry-supporting, left-leaning Bush bashers must acknowledge that the most commercially successful documentary filmmaker of our time is one of the art form's technical low-rungs. As a provocateur, he has no equal. But compared with Errol Morris, Jehane Noujaim, the Maysles brothers, or Kevin Macdonald, Moore has neither a journalist's vigor nor a director's eye for the medium. In fact, his lack of élan might be precisely what his fervid supporters love about him: Manipulative and slick he may be, but who could accuse him of being polished or pretentious or elitist? Despite his acclaim, his impressive Hollywood connections, and his bestselling books, Moore still projects underdog cred, and his films' lack of discipline proudly play into that shaggy-dog quality.
Where Morris' The Thin Blue Line sought to prove its point (freeing an innocent man) through a detailed, sophisticated argument, 9/11 lumbers, spits, and rages, seizing at everything within distance. Though rambunctious, this rapid-fire approach can be cathartic when Moore finds the right target. Columbine's assault on American gun violence was a lazy way for the showboat behind (and, very often, in front of) the camera to sound off on Bush and whatever corporate evils happened to be in the way. But with his new film, which starts with the contested 2000 presidential election and takes us through the still-raging Iraq war, Moore summons up the same deservedly enraged spirit that propelled Roger & Me past its flaws. That film, released as Reagan's '80s were rife for reevaluation, crystallized a decade's worth of liberal anger. 9/11 does the same for anyone still smarting from Bush's questionable victory four years ago, anyone who has been dissatisfied with the president's behavior since the September 11 terrorist attacks. And like Roger & Me, his new film has a very clear purpose in mind: He wants Bush gone.
As long-winded, rushed, and phlegmatic as it sometimes is, Fahrenheit 9/11never lets go of that singular mission. It stirs up the still-festering resentments left from the Gore-Bush race; it brilliantly takes us back to the World Trade Center attacks by not showing us any of the footage; it shocks us with sound bites and footage from a very questionable current war. Moore doesn't deal in logic as much as he enjoys petulant rage (and, of course, easy humor), and so his movies only work if we already share his opinion on the topic at hand. (That's what all the clapping in the theater is about.)
And, frankly, while I'm glad 9/11 is reaching a relatively wide audience, and while I hope it influences some people to vote against Bush, and while I'm impressed with Moore's relative restraint and focus this time out, I find it difficult to share in the joy at this so-called success. Maybe it's because I wish he would aim higher. Maybe it's because I know other people have in the past.
In my impressionable teens, I saw JFK, a galvanic, brilliant masterpiece of an argument, a hypnotic what-if that dissected the Kennedy assassination with brio. Whether or not you agreed there was a conspiracy at play, you couldn't help but appreciate that you were in the hands of a masterful filmmaker who had marshaled his full powers to a pet cause. Stone stated his case in the most cinematic, gripping way possible, and that merger of ingenuity and intention made it a landmark.
Maybe I'm just not that idealistic kid anymore, but I could always feel a buffer between myself and the screen as I watched Fahrenheit 9/11. Stone's film had such energy, such passion, that you didn't sit there just debating its points. JFK was a spellbinding thriller and a hell of a show -- you got involved with what was happening. That rush of intrigue and excitement is beyond Moore; he has no storytelling knack. (And don't say it's because Moore works in documentaries, either. Watch Hoop Dreams, or Touching the Void and you'll see narrative tension equal to any fiction film.) Nobody talks about Michael Moore films as an experience; you either agree with them or you don't, and that's that. His har-har humor style is fitfully funny, and he rarely takes your breath away with his "revelations." No there there.
Fahrenheit 9/11 might be the most graceless film to win the top prize at Cannes. But as a snapshot for the way a great number of Americans (and, presumably, the world) feels toward Bush in 2004, it's a rare achievement. I can't imagine many people remembering much of this film in future months the way we retain classic scenes or looks or moments from our favorite movies. Of course, Moore would probably argue that he's not about art; he's trying to affect change by any means necessary. All the huffing and puffing up on the screen might seem naïve and irrelevant if Bush gets defeated this November. Ironically, 9/11 might end up as a novelty item, a curiosity time capsule for these highly complicated, troublesome years in America's history. But Moore's probably not so concerned about how history will regard his filmmaking prowess. If he gets his wish and his film helps elect John Kerry, then 9/11 will ultimately seem like nothing but a footnote to very troubled times.
